Mistakes And Sentiment
by possessmemore
Summary: Sherlock makes mistakes. He is human, after all. For letswritesherlock challenge 1 After a nearly disastrous case, Sherlock and John share a tense taxi ride back to Baker Street. With emotions running high, they finally arrive back at 221B, and then…
1. Resemblance

Without waiting for John, Sherlock stomped up the stairs. Furious, he went straight to his bedroom, flinging himself dramatically on the bed even though nobody could see him. He was laying face down on the mattress and hardly able to breathe but he didn't care. He wasn't able to find the strength to turn on his back. He heard John rummaging in the kitchen. Upper cupboard. Fridge. Silverware Drawer. Rustling breadbasket. How could John possibly be calm enough to make himself a sandwich now? Sherlock groaned to himself in frustration. Now, John was leaving the kitchen and made his way up to his room. Sherlock, using only his feed freed himself of his shoes, slipping out of them without bothering to get up.

He knew he had failed. God, how immensely he had fucked that case up. What bothered him most was that everyone knew. He would never hear the end of it from Donovan. He groaned again before he pushed himself up to roll on his back. Well, shit.

His phone buzzed somewhere under his spine. Muttering to himself about _annoying, frustrating, bloody long coats,_ Sherlock managed to retrieve the phone without getting up. He supposed he had stretched a muscle in his arm, though.

What the hell did you do back there? – JW

You might choose to ignore it but I am actually a human being. Human beings get distracted sometimes, so did I. But I do understand that this comes somewhat as a surprise to you. – SH

I am not surprised and I am not stupid enough to not notice when you avoid answering me. - JW

John Watson apparently chose this special night to be a pain in the arse. Annoying, frustrating, irritating John. Sherlock sat up, leaning against his headboard before he considered an answer.

You are –delete-

You were so –delete-

I was just being precautious. – SH

Since when? If I wouldn't know better I'd say you were afraid. – JW

Please, don't be daft. Are you deliberately being a bigger idiot today or does it just happen? – SH

Thank you for the confirmation. – JW

Damn him. Today of all days, John really seemed to have a luminous night.

It made Sherlock smile none the less.

You almost got us all killed. I really need an explanation. What distracted you? – JW

No way to answer that genuinely. Or at all, actually. Sherlock couldn't quite put a finger on the reason for his extreme caution. One moment he wanted to start a string of deductions, the next he found himself unable to speak, worried about the possibility that the murderer would feel insulted and therefore punish them all. Instead he had kept quiet, what in the end had made the murderer much angrier than any insult could ever have done. Sherlock just stood there, frozen to the spot while the accomplices took position behind John and Lestrade. When he heard the safeties on their guns being unlocked the words just started spluttering out of him. Fortunately, he managed to talk as long as Lestrade's fortification needed to storm the apartment. Meeting their perpetrator while breaking in was his plan all along, not that he would tell John, but getting himself and the others killed not that much. And what was worse was the fact that he suspected somebody else entirely. That had never happened before. He actually had believed that the husband was innocent, how he fell for that was beyond his understanding. In retrospect, all the obvious signs were there he just hadn't managed to string them together in the right order. Well, mafia bosses did look like office workers nowadays. And yes, the wife was killed while he was in a pub with some friends. And yes, she had an affair.

Sherlock had expected to find the wife's lover in their secret apartment where he would no doubt be packing, to leave London as soon as possible. Unfortunately, they ran directly into the still angry and murderous husband, seeking revenge even after having "punished" his wife.

He had to admit that that made for a long list of mistakes. He could only guess what lead to this chain of wrong deductions but he suspected strongly that it had something to do with the husband being smallish, blonde and called John. Stupid. He definitely fell for the fake tears that had made their way over his slightly tanned cheeks.

Sherlock decided that John would understand what he didn't.

Sentiment. – SH

Sherlock could almost see John's surprised expression before him.

How so? – JW

He reminded me of someone. – SH

Of you, actually. – SH

A few minutes of nervous waiting later, Sherlock heard John's steps on the stairs, then crossing the kitchen and, finally, there came a knock on his door.

"Sherlock?" John's voice was small, almost anxious. Why should he be the one that was anxious?

"Come in." Sherlock was still fully clothed and felt a bit awkward now that John opened the door and peeked in, cautiously. He watched as John, wearing pajama pants and an old shirt, took in his appearance and stepped in front of the bed.

"Is it O.K. for you? That I am here, I mean?"

"Fine." Sherlock managed to say almost as casual as he had intended to.

"Aren't you going to sleep? The case is solved, after all." John was fidgeting and staring at his hands, while he repeatedly licked his lips.

Sherlock narrowed his eyes at him. He could only assume what was happening here but he was willing to try something, even if it would be a long shot.

"Yes, eventually."

"Oh, O.K.! That's… good." John licked his lips again, obviously unsure what to say next. He slowly started to retreat backwards when Sherlock spoke up next.

"Will you stay with me?" John's head shot up at that, eyes wide and mouth agape, before he looked away again, staring at the wall over Sherlock's headboard.

"Do you…Do you want me to?" His voice was almost a whisper now, barely audible to Sherlock even at their close proximity.

"Yes, I'd like that." Sherlock said equally hushed.

John nodded more to himself than anybody else before he hurriedly climbed on the bed and pulled the duvet up to his chin. Sherlock got up from the bed and, unceremoniously, chucked his coat on the floor before climbing back on the bed and laying down on top of the duvet. John had turned his back on him, almost completely hidden from view, only his blonde hair standing out against the white bed linen. Sherlock's shoulder pressed against his back was their only point of contact but it was enough to give them a sense of calm none of them had known in a long time.


	2. A Night To Change It All

When Sherlock awoke, he estimated that it had to be 2 am, according to the light that fell through the window and the time of the year. That meant he'd had around 3 hours of sleep. Definitely enough. He felt strangely warm and relaxed during the first few seconds of consciousness but as soon as he noticed an arm around his waist he started to remember the events of the day before and his stress-free state vanished immediately. Tension pooled in his limbs and he felt the need to move. He considered getting dressed and taking a walk through the dubious corners of London. The only thing that held him back was John's arm resting on his body. Getting up would almost certainly mean that John would wake up and deem it important to "have a talk". A talk that Sherlock wasn't prepared to have, at the moment. So, getting up was no possibility and sleep wasn't even on the agenda in his wound-up condition. Sherlock's solution was rather obvious, not very creative and much less brave but he was convinced that it was the logical one. He held as still as possible and started to evaluate the data he had gathered the day before.

In the dark silence of the night he could easily admit that he'd been afraid and compromised. Afraid that John would get hurt and compromised by his sentiment towards the loyal colleague. Sherlock didn't believe in psychology, especially not behaviorism. However, he diagnosed that he had generalized John's name and appearance as trustworthy and genuine. A perfectly healthy, psychological mechanism. None the less, it was an inexcusable mistake on his part and a huge disadvantage when it came to his work. Luckily, this automatism could easily be removed if he watched out for it. Lesson learned.

Slowly, Sherlock turned his head towards John and watched his rapid eye movement. He had nearly gotten them both killed. Never before had he experienced fear for another person. He wouldn't have expected it to be for utterly selfish reasons, but it was. There was no part of his life that he didn't share with John. No part that wasn't worthless without him.

Startled, he realized that he valued John's life higher than his own. He just knew that it was his job to protect John's life at all costs. Looking back at that Moriarty incident he had probably known for a long time.

It was 3 am when John woke up to find himself cuddled up against Sherlock. It took him a while to realize that, in the first light of day, this could turn out to be problem. Even though if right then it didn't feel like one. John felt oddly content right where he was. Sharing a bed with his best friend, felt like a natural progression of their relationship to him. In the evening, John had simply done what the situation had called for, usually that was a course of action that worked out for him. Until there would be evidence to the contrary he wouldn't make himself regret his behavior. He pushed himself up resting his head on his left hand to look at Sherlock's relaxed face and rhythmic respiration.

Sentiment. He could recall thousands of times where he had heard this word coming out of Sherlock's mouth with disgust. John could hardly believe that this was the same Sherlock that was currently sleeping next to him.

John looked at the mellow face beside him, a surge of pride tugging at his guts while he thought about being the one that Sherlock had chosen to let into his guarded heart. He doubted that he would ever understand how he had managed to make Sherlock care for him, especially considering how much Sherlock had already given him so freely. All the things he once craved, that he missed to a degree that it made his body revolt, where now available to him just because of Sherlock. Even things that he never knew he needed. Knowing for sure that his fondness was returned, was threatening to overwhelm John but it also induced a new wave of affection inside of him that he just had to act on. Cautiously, John leaned over Sherlock and pressed a lingering kiss against his temple. For long seconds, he reveled in the feeling of soft skin under his lips and the smell of Sherlock's hair in his nose. John swore to himself that he would do everything he could to enforce their bond. Surprisingly, he realized that there were no boundaries he couldn't see himself cross. Cuddling up against his flat mate, he let his right arm rest over Sherlock's heart where he felt it beating against his palm. Instantly, he drifted off again.

Sherlock's eyes opened wide, his lips forming a surprised _Oh_.

The next morning, John found himself alone in Sherlock's room. His sleep had been refreshing to a degree that felt foreign to him. Going through his morning routine, John established that Sherlock had left without sending him the obligatory text to inform him of his whereabouts.

* * *

Generalization

Inappropriate stimulus generalization occurs when different situations fail to produce discriminative operant responding. Generalization is not always inappropriate and occurs when you respond the same to two stimuli that are not identical.

For example, a child may learn to say "dog" when it sees the drawing of a rottweiler in a book. If the child later says "dog" when it sees a schnauzer on the street, it has generalized between the two distinct stimuli (the rottweiler and the schnauzer).

If that description doesn't help you to understand the psychological condition with which Sherlock diagnoses himself, think of a really horrible/ awesome person in your past and reflect on your reaction towards someone that looks even remotely similar.


	3. Thunder And Lightning

Sherlock didn't know where to go, after leaving the house at 4 am. He only knew that he needed as much space as possible to find out what John's behavior meant. He had a vague idea but Sherlock knew that this really wasn't his area. He walked around London for more than three hours before he was able to come up with a plan. As unusual as it was, he needed advice. There was only one problem: Who should he ask? He considered talking to Lestrade but was fairly certain that John would be embarrassed if he ever found out about it. There was Molly, but in contrast to general belief he knew that, asking her for (if his assumption was right) a probably romantic advice, would only be cruel and a hindrance to their shared work. Sherlock also thought about asking Mrs. Hudson but he knew her so well that he'd had the whole conversation in his mind palace, instead, and it only lead to an extremely excited Mrs. Hudson which would, no doubt, drop hints for John every time she saw him. Mycroft was out for obvious reasons. That's how Sherlock found himself at Blackfriars, in a place he never thought he'd see from the inside.

The clock over the counter of Café Nero indicated that it was almost 8 am when Sherlock ordered his tall Americano. While he waited to get his drink, he scanned the sitting area for the kind of person that would be able to give him the right advice. There were very few tables occupied, 3 by business men with their morning caffeine, who he didn't take into consideration. He preferred to ask a woman if possible. There were seven of them, one apparently a lesbian which was sitting at the exactly right angle to stare at a single mother that was talking agitatedly into her phone. Both were out. One table was occupied by four young women that were chatting like they hadn't seen each other in years. Usually Sherlock would have found the variety at this table intriguing. They all came from different countries although one was British, by all means. The other three had accents that indicated one German and two Spanish or Latin American origins. Sherlock entertained the idea of asking them, just for the variety of possible ideas when he saw the remaining female guest. Single but a string of lovers. Experienced, detached and extroverted. Reads magazines (vogue at the moment) but never the newspapers, so unlikely to recognize him. Perfect for Sherlocks purpose.

His plan was simple. He went over to her, seemingly nervous and fidgeting with his coffee. She looked up at him questioningly before she indicated with a short nod that he was invited to sit at her table. He knew what to do. He would tell her about his flat mate. What had happened the other night and why. (Sherlock would tell her that they had been robbed in a dark alley. He'd leave out that consulting detective bit. Too risky.) Furthermore, he'd say that he was straight but strongly attached to his flat mate. He'd call himself John.

His pick was excellent. The woman (Beth) was more than eager to help him.

* * *

John had half a shift at the surgery that day. He despised those short shifts; they felt like a waste of time. Over and above, it was a disgustingly hot day and he was sweating profoundly while he tried to move as little as possible. In his four hours of work he had only two patients of which one was a hypochondriac that was convinced he had a strong flu because he felt weak and hot, all the time. The other one was a young girl with gonorrhea which he immediately sent to a gynecologist.

Yet, while he was telling himself: _Don't move. Don't move. Don't move.,_ he was unable to get in a bad mood. He was too busy reveling in the feelings towards one mad consulting detective. Strangely, he wasn't afraid or anxious; he only felt relief, having finally found out what it was that always drew him back to 221 b even after the worst fight.

When he finally left the surgery, John made his way to the tube station under the hot, burning sun. He stopped for an ice cone and watched the people that were walking by. He felt as if he knew something they didn't. As if he was happier than everyone else. Surely, he knew that there still were a few obstacles to overcome. Telling Sherlock, for example. But he refused to worry about that. It had been a long time since he had felt that strong for anyone and he was just happy that he was still able to feel that way. He had doubted it, actually.

The tube was overcrowded and had at least 45 degrees. The people were extremely annoyed and impolite, so when John reached Baker Street Station he was more than happy to abandon it. As he stepped out on the street, the sky was dark and heavy and the air was charged. John inhaled deeply and relished the cool wind that began blowing down the street. Thunder was growling in the distance.

* * *

Sherlock watched John as he stepped through the door of 221 b and followed soon after. When he entered the living room, John was rummaging in the kitchen, apparently searching for a snack. Sherlock was well aware that he wouldn't find one and prepared himself for frustrated muttering but when John gave up and turned around, his face was relaxed and he was smiling. Sherlock had left the house in his coat that morning and, though he would never admit it, he felt awfully warm and wanted nothing more than to take a shower. John sat at the kitchen table staring at a point on the wall, still smiling, when Sherlock threw the coat in his armchair and walked into the bathroom.

Only as he stepped out of the cool spray of the shower, Sherlock noticed that they hadn't even said hello to each other. He toweled himself off, thinking about Beth' judgment on the matter and the ideas she'd had. Surprisingly, her assessment was the same as his. Probably, he wasn't that bad when it came to sentiment, after all.

The living room was empty and dark, only enlightened by the thunderstorm that was raging outside. He called for John but there was no answer and when he came out of his room again after putting on some clothes, the flat was still deserted. Sherlock noticed that the sounds of the storm seemed to be coming right out of the hallway. When he stepped out on the staircase he saw that the front door was wide open.

* * *

John stood in the pouring rain, looking up at the dark clouds and waiting for the next lightning. He was already soaked through and felt the water running down his chest and back but the rain was lukewarm and a welcome change to the earlier heat. There was a new flash of light, loud thunder rumbled through the sky. John could feel it in his body and his heart was racing with excitement.

"Hello, John." The deep voice was oddly fitting in between the sounds of the storm. John turned around to see Sherlock, standing right behind him in the rain. A small smirk was tugging at the corners of the consulting detectives lips. John's own smile widened in answer. Unbelievably, he was even happier now than mere seconds before.

"Hello." John said, grinning and with a playful nod in Sherlock's direction. He was just about to ask, if Sherlock would like to watch the storm with him, when suddenly there was a hand at his nape and plush lips pressing against his.


	4. Waiting Is The Hardest Part

Lightning brightened the sky over Baker Street as the rain ran over John's face and dripped from his lashes onto his cheeks. Sherlock's lips moved languidly against his, catching his lower lip and sucking lightly.

Hesitantly, John pulled back and looked up into Sherlock's face. The Consulting Detective's eyes were closed for a moment longer before he dragged them slowly open and answered John's questioning gaze. John wasn't able to keep the happy smile from his face but, raising one brow; he cocked his head to the right and waited for an explanation. He could exactly pinpoint the moment Sherlock tensed and struggled for words.

"That was surprisingly pleasant. I wouldn't mind a repetition." Sherlock said, as if he was talking to himself but he looked expectantly at John, who immediately understood that there would be no further explanation in the near future. Not a first, when it came to Sherlock's actions.

"Fair enough." John said, shrugging. Sherlock's posture instantly changed into one of utter relief but his arms were dangling loosely at his sides and he was already starting to shiver in the cold rain.

"Come one. We should go in and change." John suggested as casual as possible, while he held his hand out for Sherlock to take it. After a few agonizing seconds, Sherlock quietly took his hand and followed him inside. John didn't even attempt to wipe the grin off his face.

* * *

John had sent Sherlock to his room to get changed and they met five minutes later in the parlour, were they had tea and cuddled up against each other on the sofa. That was two weeks ago. Two caseless weeks. Lestrade hadn't called and Sherlock was worried that he had lost his trust in him after that unfortunate incident. He pushed the thought away to concentrate on the problem at hand.

Sherlock replayed his conversation with Beth over and over again. There was a flaw in her assumption of what would happen. She had told him, that he should get over that one kiss and he would be wiser about John's feelings towards him. If John would have been opposed, Sherlock would have said that he had been caught up in the moment. Good that John had offered a possible moment the exact same day. Better still, he wasn't opposed in the least.

According to Beth, they would take the next step in their relationship, soon after. But she was wrong. Annoyingly so. She had told him to wait until he was ready to have his first attempt at gay sex and Sherlock could only assume that that was the reason why John didn't come on to him. Sherlock had had sex before and it had been with a man each time. One time it even god close to being good. Although, it hadn't been satisfying, Sherlock had always known that he wasn't interested in women. He had kissed a woman once, or was kissed by her, and realized that he needed different physical attributes to even want to give sex a try.

John, though, had until two weeks ago been straight as an arrow. Sherlock had tried to coax him into closer physical contact than snuggling and, as John once put it quite rudely, "dry-humping", but John had always stopped abruptly before one of them had any chance to climax. It was frustrating. They only once managed to take their shirts off, never their trousers. His strong need for John was entirely foreign to him. Sherlock's patience grew even thinner than it had been before but he didn't quite know how to get John to talk about it.

Certainly, he couldn't just ask him.

* * *

John was extremely amused. For the great actor he was, Sherlock had never been able to hide his frustration, much less in the last two weeks. John had to admit that it was a bit cruel of him to interrupt every time they were close to coming, but that just wasn't the way he wanted their first time to happen. He would regret it if they would come into their pants like teenagers and if he was honest to himself, he had needed some time to wrap his head around the idea of sleeping with a man.

But he had done a good job accomplishing that. Luckily, he found himself ready now and just at the right time, for Sherlock seemed to have reached his breaking point. In the last three days Sherlock grew more and more agitated and his huffs of frustration weren't as amusing to John as they had been in the beginning. Still, John couldn't get over the fact that Sherlock hadn't even once tried to talk to him. Surely, that nutter would rule out the most obvious solution. Instead he had tried to make John unbearably horny, trap him under his weight on the couch and on one occasion he had actually begged John to let him come. The last one had been the hardest test for John's self control and left them both achingly hard and frustrated.

But John had other plans. This new relationship to Sherlock was unlike every else he had ever had and he wanted their first time to be a testimonial to that. In the last two weeks, John had build up his courage and ended up deciding that the way they would have sex would show his commitment to their correlation.

* * *

Sherlock lay on the couch, thinking about new ways to get John to have sex with him. He didn't doubt John's attraction to him. That much was obvious from the physical evidence he was displaying every time they engaged in sexual contact. Thirty minutes ago, John had silently left the room, after spending an awfully long time in the shower, to _lie down for a while_ what Sherlock found odd but also freeing. He found it much harder to think when John was in the same room, nowadays.

"Sherlock, would you come here for a moment?" John all but shouted down from his bedroom.

"Why?" Sherlock's frustration was clearly written between the lines of this one line.

"I am in my bedroom, calling you to come to me. Deduce it!" John yelled with a hint of amusement in his voice. Sherlock only heard how husky it sounded. He was up from the couch and on the stairs in less than two seconds. He ran up only to stop, as if dumbstruck, in the doorway to John's room. The sight that greeted Sherlock made him swallow around the sudden lump in his throat.

* * *

At the whole concept of gay sex, there was one factor that John just couldn't get used to. Preparation. The idea that Sherlock would have to shove his fingers up his arse didn't seem very appealing and certainly not sexy. John had researched everything that was to know about the right ways to get clean and ready for the actual sex. So, he had taken a shower and cleaned the area in question thoroughly. Afterwards, he had excused himself to have a lie-down but had instead started to stretch himself. At first he had found it unpleasant and a bit painful and when he managed to get two fingers in he was about to call the whole thing off. But he really wanted it. Wanted to give this to Sherlock. Then, suddenly, he had found his prostate. _Holy… !_ Instantly, he had called for Sherlock.

And that was exactly how Sherlock found him now. Kneeling on his bed and thrusting three fingers slowly in and out. John was sweating heavily. With half lidded eyes and unsteady breaths he held one hand out towards Sherlock, silently asking him to come closer.

Sherlock took a few steps in his direction before he hastily started to undress.

"You know that it would have been acceptable for me to do it the other way around, John?" His voice was muffled by the shirt he was currently pulling over his head and the effort it took to keep upright, while he tried to get rid of his socks, using only his feet.

"I want it that way. Now hurry!" John's voice was hoarse but he still managed to sound demanding.

Sherlock, finally naked, took a few seconds to relish the view and didn't realize that John was doing the same. He had never seen Sherlock in this state of undress. Especially not with an erection jutting out from his body. John waited for nervousness or fear to tug at his nerves but he noted with satisfaction that seeing Sherlock this aroused just urged his own excitement on.

When their eyes met, it felt like some kind of spell was broken. Sherlock threw himself on the bed with a manic grin on his face. The bouncing brought John of balance and he fell on his side, lying beside Sherlock. Although his fingers had slipped out of him, John couldn't muster up the strength to be upset. Sherlock's happy grin just made him smile in return.

"You are sure." It wasn't a question but John nodded anyway.

Laying his hand on John's hip, Sherlock pulled him closer and pressed their mouths together. Suddenly, he felt nervous. It was John's first time and he didn't want to screw it up. He was a bit worried after almost having come into his pants at the sight of John fucking himself on his fingers.

John slid his hand over his cheekbone and smiled at him, reassuringly.

"Will you let me take charge? I would feel a bit….more confident, you know?" John spoke quietly, holding Sherlock's gaze.

"Of course, John." Relief rushed through Sherlock's body. He would just let John find out for himself what he liked. That would make it much easier for him to not come right the second he was fully seated inside John.

He let himself be rolled over on his back. John, still lying beside him, let his hand slide up Sherlocks thigh. He softly kissed his neck while taking a firm hold of Sherlock's cock. Slowly, he began stroking his hand up and down the hard length. Sherlock gasped at the first contact but at the same time he tried to collect as much information as possible about John's naked body. He was just estimating the number of hairs on John's chest when a thumb was swiped over the head of his cock and left him panting. Then he felt John rolling a condom over him before he applied some lube and resumed stroking.

"You are astonishing like this, Sherlock." John's voice sounded reverently.

As soon as Sherlock noticed that John's hand was gone, he felt knees on either side of his thighs. He looked up into John's eyes. There was a short moment of absolute silence before John positioned himself over Sherlock's prick. He held it against his entrance and, with a self - assuring nod, he sank slowly down until the head of Sherlock's cock slipped behind the tight ring of muscles.

John's eyes had closed of their own accord. As he opened them he looked right into Sherlock's worried face.

"Alright?" Sherlock's voice was strained. He was clearly struggling for control.

John felt stretched in a way that was neither comfortable nor painful. Experimentally, he sank further down and watched Sherlock's eyes widen, his mouth opening as his jaw went slack.

"Alright." He said gazing down at the point of their connection. He couldn't see much but just knowing that Sherlock was inside of him, made his cock twitch. Slowly, he bottomed out, feeling Sherlock's thighs against his bare arse.

A small whine escaped Sherlock's throat. His body was tense with the effort to keep still. John tried to soothe him by letting his hands wander over his chest and arms, stopping only to squeeze one nipple at a time, what forced a reaction out of Sherlock that John immediately filed away for further exploration. He leaned down to kiss him lovingly before he brought his lips to Sherlock's ear.

"Let's go." He whispered in warning.

He pushed himself almost fully of Sherlock's cock before he sank down again. This time they gasped simultaneously. Sherlock looked in awe at John's body as it moved above him. All this time, his hands had been lying limply at his sides but now he grabbed John's hips to support him. John steadily established a comfortable rhythm, moving up and down on Sherlock's hard arousal.

Sherlock marveled at John's tightness and how wet his preparations had left him. The slow movement was almost unbearable to stand. It was teasing him just enough to make his cock ache, although it was definitely not enough to make him come. He felt John changing the angle of his thrusts a few times before he understood what he was trying to accomplish and grabbed his hips just a bit tighter. John stilled and looked down at him, questioningly.

In this case, Sherlock was the experienced one. He pushed John up as far as possible without slipping out of him and shifted his hips just a few centimeters to the left, before he thrust in again.

John let out a loud moan that caused a strong wave of arousal, surging through Sherlock's body.

"John, I …. Can I do it again?" Sherlock couldn't keep the pleading tone out of his voice but John didn't seem to notice.

"Yes, please. NOW!"

Sherlock thrust up again, harder this time, and a satisfied groan forced its way up his throat. He couldn't resist doing it again. And again.

John was panting heavily above him. He didn't seem to mind the faster, more intense pace so Sherlock decided to continue what he was doing.

John was moaning constantly now, his eyes closed, he began frantically working his own cock until Sherlock batted his hand away.

"Let me…!" He demanded, between groans. John only nodded in agreement when Sherlock started to work his excessively dripping prick. Instantly, he felt John's muscles clench around him.

"Sherlock, I…I am sorry, but…oh, fuck!" John let his head fall back. Sherlock thrust into him even harder and faster, at the exact angle that would ensure that he brushed against John's prostate. With a loud groan, which suspiciously sounded like Sherlock's name, John came harder than he had done in a long time.

If Sherlock hadn't been so caught up in his own desire to come, he would have basked in pride, being the one that had done this to John. But as it was, it just felt like the permission to finally let go. He took a stronger hold of John's hips and thrust up into him. Violently and in a punishing pace he neared his own climax. John was splayed out over him, seemingly blissed out, and Sherlock definitely did not expect him to, voluntarily, clench around him. He came with a shout, burying himself deep in John's body.

Affectionate kisses were scattered over his neck as the aftershocks ripped through him.

* * *

Though, John was already cuddled up against him, Sherlock pulled him even closer. He was already starting to get restless but he knew that it was generally expected to remain in bed with ones partner after sex. He was determined to wait until John fell asleep. He had nothing else to do than lying around so it didn't bother him all that much. John sighed against his chest.

"That was a quite successful first time, I dare say." The smile in his voice was evident.

"I am willing to agree." Sherlock said, smugly. "But next time, we will reverse the roles. I know what you meant to tell me with it. I understood. And you should know that I share the sentiment."

A small peck right above his collarbone was the only answer he got.

* * *

Two days later, Lestrade had called them with a new case. They were running through a dark alley when Sherlock heard a loud _Unf_ behind him. He turned around to see John layingon the dirty cobblestone, a man standing over him. Sherlock's heart sped up when he saw the gun that was pointed at John's limp body.

It happened too fast to have been a conscious decision but suddenly Sherlock started to talk.

"Milksop!" He heard himself say. The man's head snapped up in horror.

"What?"

"Isn't that what your father always said when he abused you? Milksop?" The p in the end rang out with a popping sound. He grinned sardonically at his opponent.

Their suspect held the gun higher, pointing it at Sherlock now.

"Are you weary of your pitiful life? Shut up or I'll shoot you!" His voice was full of rage, the gun excessively shaking in his hands. _Good._

Sherlock could see John stir, where he was lying.

"What is it? Are you such a wimp that you can't even take a few insults?" Sherlock was holding his sole attention as the suspect took a step towards him and, therefore, away from John.

"I said SHUT UP!" His whole body was trembling now. But Sherlock didn't worry about it. John was already standing behind him, raising his gun.

"On the floor." John growled, dangerously. A shudder ran over Sherlock's back only to pool heavily in his groin.

20 minutes later, Lestrade was hauling the man off and John agreed that they would give their statements the next day, as always. Sherlock pulled him towards the direction of Bakerstreet to show him exactly how pleased he was about the way they had wound up this case.

He had solved the case, saved John's life and, better still, his initial fear for John had helped him to react even faster than usual.

Stopping abruptly, he pulled John close.

"Oh, John, you were fantastic back there. When we get home I want you inside of me. And it'd better be deep and hard." He growled into John's ear, his voice a deep rumble, while he pressed his right hand against the growing bulk between John's thighs. A low moan was erupting from the doctor's throat.

Grinning, he recommenced to drag John along with him.

_He was on fire!_

* * *

_Sorry, this is obviously not betaed. I STILL haven't found someone that would be willing or able to do it. I know that last chapter was quite longish but it had to be in favour of the credibility. I hope you liked it! Thanks to _MadameGoethe, iamsuperlocked, Mayle, Ertal77, World'sOnlyConsultingCriminal.


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